


Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Heavily Drugged on Silk Sheets

by glymr, iesika



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Twisted, tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glymr/pseuds/glymr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iesika/pseuds/iesika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are a worthy heir to your mentor.  But how will you stop me now?"  His lips turn up again.  "Do you even *wish* to?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Heavily Drugged on Silk Sheets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammage_art](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sammage_art).



> A gift for [sammage_art's](http://sammage-art.livejournal.com/) birthday. 
> 
> Mind the tags. There are definite dub-con elements to this story, in case the title didn't give it away.

When Tim wakes up, he's not sure where he is. His head is throbbing just slightly, but it isn't really pain... something is muffling the divide between his senses and perception, and everything seems to thrum with his heartbeat.  
  
There is a scent in the air – some kind of perfume or incense. In theory, if he concentrates, he should be able to determine what he's smelling - Bruce has trained him to identify the components of various perfumes and colognes for investigative purposes - but in reality... well, it just smells *good*. Heady and rich, and slightly exotic. He breathes deeply, feeling his chest rise and fall.  
  
Tim's eyes are open. He stares up at the high white ceiling overhead. It seems familiar somehow, but his brain is failing to make connections the way it should. He's obviously drugged.  
  
He tries to diagnose himself by his symptoms, but he doesn't get much further than “I feel funny” before he's rubbing his legs aimlessly against the silk sheets and not thinking of much except for how good it feels. Oh. His legs must be bare. He looks down his body, raising his head minutely off the pillow before letting it fall. He's under a sheet, but he can feel the silk *everywhere*, so he doesn't think he's wearing much underneath. He closes his eyes.  
  
“I trust you've had a pleasant rest?” someone says, and Tim frowns a little. He knows that voice, but –  
  
He could open his eyes. If he opened his eyes he could see who was speaking to him.  
  
“You look very comfortable, Detective. I'm pleased you've taken so well to my hospitality.”  
  
Detective. Detec...tive. Tim opens his eyes. Ra's al Ghul. He can't decide if he's surprised or not.  
  
The room is...where is he? He doesn't think he's been here before, but something about it is familiar. What's the last thing he can remember? That's the place to start – if he can just...  
  
He can't remember what the last thing he can remember is. That should probably be more distressing than it currently is.  
  
His proprioception is as muddled as the rest of his senses; he feels a little like he's floating, like his limbs are higher than his head. The sensation becomes more pronounced and he suddenly feels like he's slipping, spinning in the direction of his left hip. When he opens his eyes, he hasn't moved, but Ra's is siting beside him on the bed, the soft mattress dented slightly under his weight. Tim blinks at him sleepily and watches with detached interest as one large brown hand, long-fingered and finely manicured, brushes a strand of hair back from his eyes.  
  
The touch feels cool against his brow, the brush of his own hair like the tickle of feathers. Tim breathes deep and his head spins with the scent of the incense. He turns his face against the cool pillow and brings his hand up to bat at the one now caressing his cheek.  
  
His hand... doesn't respond quite as he'd expected it to. There is a clinking sound, and he cranes his neck back. Oh. He's restrained. His hands are fastened to the headboard with tight loops of flexible metal cable. He...He should be *upset* about this. He really should. He's - the cable is cool. It feels like a snake, flexible, strong, cool to the touch, smooth overall but just rough enough to catch on his skin when he turns his wrists.   
  
"While I don't doubt your ability to extricate yourself, given enough time, I doubt you are currently possessed of the will to cause yourself the pain that would be necessary." Tim blinks and relaxes his neck. Ra's is leaning over him, his fingers resting on Tim's cheek and his thumb pressing lightly on Tim's chin.  
  
Tim lets his mouth fall open, but his tongue feels heavy, and he can't think of anything to say. He doesn't think Ra's would answer the obvious questions, and Tim is not sure he'd want the answers if he did. The thumb strokes across Tim's bottom lip, and it's like he can feel every whorl and line of texture on the pad of it.  He lets the thumb press inside, smooth against his tongue and with a flavor of salt and spice. The thumb slides away and it takes a moment before he remembers to close his mouth.  
  
A soft, deep chuckle rolls over him and he licks his lips, blinking.  "Are you wondering why you're here, Detective?  Or are your faculties so impaired that you can't even do that?  I must confess," the larger hand is back, pressing lightly into the center of his chest, "I had not expected you to be quite so...susceptible.  Surely your mentor has trained you to resist the effects of such..."  Tim finds himself arching slightly into the touch, and Ra's stops.  "Apparently not," he murmurs a moment later.  "Sometimes I forget that you...and he...have had but one lifetime."  His lips curve cruelly.  "This will serve my purpose just as well, however.  Perhaps even better."  
  
The words are...words.  Tim understands them individually, but together they are hardly more than noise, almost a like song in his ears.  Eventually some of the meaning filters in, and he bites his tongue, trying to find clarity within the sharpness.  The burst of pain shivers through his mind.  For a brief moment the clouds thin.  "Why *am* I here?" he says, struggling to hold on to the thoughts as the fog gathers again.  
  
"I warned you," says the man, says *Ra's* his mind tries to remind him, "I did tell you that there would be consequences.  Punishment."  
  
"I stopped you," the words are slurred but smug.  "I stopped you."  
  
"You did," acknowledges Ra's, his eyes narrowing.  "You are a worthy heir to your mentor.  But how will you stop me now?"  His lips turn up again.  "Do you even *wish* to?"  The hand on him becomes teasing, skirting a nipple, tracing down a thigh, and some part of Tim wonders exactly how much time Ra's has had to refine his sexual technique.  He follows the hand with his eyes, and is mildly surprised to note that he's erect beneath the sheet.  
  
"Stop?"  His brain has slowed again, sluggish and uncooperative, and Tim tries to remember how to clear away the mist, but it really seems like too much trouble, and besides, why would he *want* to?  He feels so good, so relaxed and warm and...and *good*.  He can't remember the last time he felt this good.  
  
"Yes, Detective.  Did you want me to stop?"  The voice is smooth, wrapping around him like a physical thing.  He hums, leaning into the voice, the touch, which lingers on his thighs before pulling away.  Tim feels his hips jerk as it does so.   
  
"I want..." He shakes his head hard, searching for lucidity.  "I _want_..."  
  
"Yes, Detective?"  
  
Tim growls and bites the inside of his cheek.  "I will get free, Ra's."  
  
"I have no doubt of it," says Ra's thoughtfully.  "But not...just...yet.  Do you know where we are?"  He pauses, and goes on when Tim doesn't speak, "We are on the sixteenth floor of Wayne Tower.  At this very moment, your _brother_ is thirty floors above us, enjoying the fruits of your accomplishments."  Leaning down, his face close to Tim's, he says, "It would not be difficult to...contact him.  Surely he would rush to aid you, his _little brother_.  I wonder," and the voice is light, but the eyes burn down at him, "if he would be any less susceptible than you, young Detective."  
  
The words penetrate Tim's consciousness at last, and belatedly he begins to struggle against his bonds. No wonder the layout of the room seemed so familiar.  "Leave him out of this," he says breathlessly.  "This is between you and me, Ra's."  
  
Something like triumph flashes in the old man's eyes.  "Yes," he says.  "It is between us.  You tried to take something from me.  And now I will take something...from you."  The hands firm on his skin, drawing a gasp from him.  "But you can stop this at any moment, Timothy.  You have but to say the word, and I will leave you here. I'll even call your brother on the way out - give you over into _his_ hands instead."  Tim moans, unable to stop himself as Ra's strokes down his skin, leaving trails of singing sensation in his wake.  "Come now, wouldn't you rather have his hands on you than mine?"  
  
Dick.  _Dick_.  God, anything to keep Dick from seeing him like this, seeing him helpless and desperate and vulnerable.  Because Tim *knows* that in this state, even the sight of Dick will make him beg, make him _plead_ for Dick to touch him.  
  
And Dick *won't*.  He'll try to stop it, he'll look for a cure or, god-forbid, call for *help*.   
  
Tim groans.  
  
"What is the matter, _Detective_?"  The word has the lightest bite of mockery to it.  His hands have not stopped once in their stroking, a complicated pattern across Tim's skin that leaves him shaking and wanting.  "What do you have to lose?  Ask me to stop, and I shall."  
  
"S-" Quick as a snake striking, one of those wicked hands pinches his nipple, making Tim cry out.  He gathers his willpower to try again.  "S..."  He can't say it. His skin is thrumming like he's been electrocuted. The hand on his skin feels like a brand, smoothing over his flushed chest, down the ridges of his stomach to toy at the sparse hair around his navel. He gasps and twists, but he's not sure if he's trying to get away from the touch, or to guide it lower.  
  
His erection is making a very embarrassing tent out of the sheet, obvious and obscene in the dim light. With every shaking breath, every hitching movement of his hips, the head of his penis rubs against the smooth, cool silk, which clings to his flesh, damp now with precome.  
  
"I'm sorry," Ra's murmers, bending low to press his lips to Tim's ear. "Did you say something?" Tim gasps and jerks his head, moving away from the tickle of Ra's' mustache. It doesn't do him any good, though - Ra's follows the movement of his head, trailing his parted lips across Tim's cheek, up over his forehead and into his hair. "You really do struggle most exquisitely."  
  
Tim opens his mouth to say something scathing, but all that comes out is a moan. That makes Ra's chuckle - a sound he can feel reverberating in his *bones.* Tim bucks up against the sheet, but Ra's' hand flattens over his belly, holding his hips down. His other hand - god, until now, the man has only touched him with *one hand*, and how is it even possible that Tim feels this way - his other hand cups Tim's cheek, turning his face up, and his lips are seized in a kiss that Tim finds himself unable to fight, despite his distaste. It's... really a very gentle kiss, considering - just a brush of parted lips, dry and undemanding. Tim's tongue darts out reflexively, wetting his own lips and brushing Ra's' in the process, and he feels a short, sharp, silent exhalation against his mouth.   
  
"It's not the drug that makes you want this," Ra's murmers as his mouth moves back down his jaw, into his hair again. Tim struggles against the hand on his stomach, bucks in a vain effort to steer it lower. "Your senses are heightened. Your inhibitions...broken."  
  
Tim squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, even as he twists under Ra's' hand.  
  
"But it is not the drug that has made you submit to physical pleasure by my hand. The submission, the desire... these are not manufactured. Every bit of this feeling is coming from within you, drawn out by my hand-"  
  
"No," Tim whispers, feeling dampness at the corners of his eyes. Ra's' nails *scratch* across the tender skin of his belly, just above the base of his cock, and Tim whimpers and feels hot tears run down the sides of his face into his hair, leaving cool trails in their wake.  
  
"Oh yes," Ra's whispers, and licks his cheek.  
  
And then he pulls back. Drags his hand up Tim's stomach to his chest, and then lets go. Stands.  
  
Tim sobs.  
  
"And you will never forget that." Ra's tells him, his voice clear and vicious. "You will never forget this moment, for as long as you live. As long as I *let* you live. Every lover that you lay with, every night you lie alone, you will think of this moment and you will remember how you bit your tongue too keep from calling me back to you." He turns his back and lifts a brocade jacket from the chair beside the bed, slipping it over his broad shoulders as Tim watches helplessly. He is indeed biting his tongue. His lip.  
  
He doesn't believe it - that the drug was not designed to arouse. He won't believe it. He *won't*. But there is no getting around the fact that he hadn't been aroused at all until the moment Ra's had touched him.  
  
"The program rerouting the security feeds from this floor of the building will self-terminate in fourteen minutes. You have until then to sober up enough to free yourself. Or..." He turns and looks back at Tim over his shoulder, and Tim feels like a butterfly pinned under his dark gaze. "You could remain. I'm sure one of your brother's operatives will notice you eventually and report your presence." With that, he straightens the cuffs of his jacket and turns to the door.  
  
Ra's is right about one thing. This moment is going to haunt Tim for the rest of his life. He should be relieved. He should be struggling against his bonds with renewed intensity, frantic to escape before the other man changes his mind, before he's caught like this by Dick and Damian and every security guard in the building.  
  
Tim closes his eyes and takes a breath, and another.  The smell of incense has already begun to fade, but the clarity he sought for earlier is now unwelcome, bitter in his mouth. He can still feel the ghost of hands on his skin, his lips.  
  
Tim knows he's going to hate himself for the rest of his life.  He bites his lip viciously, and as Ra's' hand settles on the doorknob, he hears himself speak, his voice thick and rusty. "Ra's."  
  
The older man stills but doesn't turn. Tim closes his eyes against the sight. He turns his face away and whispers in a voice even he can barely hear.    
  
"Wait."  
  
END.  
  
(Yes. We did end it there. What, is there some kind of problem? EVIL? US?)


End file.
